


fuck this

by boiledorangejuice



Category: Merrily We Roll Along - Sondheim/Furth, Rent - Larson
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, I'm not sorry, M/M, everyone dies, no happy ending, time travel?, why the fuck did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25992823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boiledorangejuice/pseuds/boiledorangejuice
Summary: After watching all of his friends die or move on with their lives, Mark Cohen is closer to being alone than ever before. After getting really drunk (just like the two nights before), Mark comes home to find a mysterious potion left out on his counter. What happens next is charming, funny, and ultimately very depressing.
Relationships: Mark Cohen/Charley Kringas
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	fuck this

**Author's Note:**

> written for tumblr user @bwaycord's "scarfshipping event" which i hate. even though it was my idea in the first place /:  
> ain't creativity a bitch?

Mark was at the bar again. He was pretty sure he had been coming here too often lately. Third time this week and it was only Wednesday. But what’s left anymore after all your friends die? Of course Angel was the first, but it was coming up on the third anniversary of her death.  _ Third _ . Three years of time gone by and what was left? It was a fucking Christmas miracle that Mimi had come back that one time, but it only took a couple more months before she gave out as well. No one with her history could have made it. Miracles. Shit man, maybe it would have been more merciful for her to die sooner. The cherry blossoms were blooming during her funeral. Somewhere else. Not here.

And then there was Roger. Dear old Roger, soldiering on through everything until he couldn’t even get up on his own. That’s why Mark spent so little time at home these days. He  _ should _ be there, he  _ should _ be helping his best friend. That’s what friends  _ should _ do, right? But Mark couldn’t step into that damn apartment without feeling overwhelmed. His best friend, dying. How the fuck was he supposed to deal with that? Everything was just hurtling toward the end. Lives, time, sanity. Lurking at the edge of Mark’s consciousness, his biggest fear: being alone.

He could run and run and run forever, but no one can outrun inevitability. Mark had watched others try. Joanne and Maureen were always doing something somewhere. Still off again, on again, but these days it was more on than off and Mark  _ assumed _ that was a good thing. The point is that they were never around. Collins was in the wind. Mark stopped seeing him a while after Angel died. Maybe he had moved out west, maybe he had died himself. It was impossible to tell. That just left Benny, the straggly corporate rat that he was, would occasionally come back around and buy Mark a drink. Every moment of those reunions was almost completely unbearable. Only worth it to have someone else pick up the tab.

Going home though, was also an inevitability. Mark swished the last bit of bourbon around the bottom of his glass, downed it in one go, and left a couple bucks on the counter. He hoped it would be enough. Mark was… employed sometimes. His film about Angel was picked up for a bit on the festival circle but only achieved moderate praise before fizzling out for good. Occasionally he could pick up a couple bucks editing scripts for mindless television drabble or a couple hours shooting on location when the execs didn’t want to pay big bucks for legitimate camera operators. It felt ingenuine and empty, but that’s how everything seemed to be these days. At least it paid for food.

The apartment was as dingy and pathetic as usual, perhaps even more so because of the thin layer of dust that covered most of Roger’s belongings. What was a guitar to a man who could barely sit up? Mark was about to shut off the kitchen light and call it a day when he noticed a small vial sitting on the counter. He was sure that it wasn’t there seconds before, appearing in a blink of the eyes. It was perfect crystal, far more than either of the guys could afford, and filled with a wine dark substance that seemed to shift and shimmer without being touched.  _ Odd _ , Mark thought.  _ And a waste of money _ . That’s when he noticed the little card laying at the vial’s side. “Drink Me” read the card, just like in Alice in Wonderland.

“Well, another drink couldn’t possibly hurt, right?” Mark popped the cork and downed it all. 

And blacked out instantly.

〜〜〜

Three pairs of eyes were staring over him when he woke up. Human eyes. That was weird. Mark was expecting aliens at this point. But no, the three people leaning over him were definitely human. Or at least they appeared to be human. Mark would cross that bridge when he came to it. 

Anyway, the faces belonged to two young men and a young woman, all about Mark’s age. They seemed as confused to see him as he was to be there. Mark had the sudden feeling that something was off about what he was seeing, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He sat up suddenly, almost slamming his forehead into someone else’s. Mark looked around. The room he was sitting in was nicer than any place he had lived in before. Very… dated sort of appearance. Mark could have sworn his grandmother owned the same television.

No one had said anything yet. After all, what’s one supposed to say when a strange man suddenly appears in your apartment? What are you supposed to say if you’re the one who’s magically appeared?

“Hey… Uh… I’m Mark. Yeah… Mark Cohen. And you are?”

“Frank,” said the tall man, sticking out his hand, “Frank Shepard.” The initial shock already passed by, Frank seemed completely unfazed by the strangeness of the situation. His handshake was firm, businesslike, and Mark was left feeling like his own was a little bit too much on the limp fish side. Mark had never been good at introductions. It was (unfortunately) one of the single constants in his life. 

The other two people introduced were much more Mark’s speed. The woman, Mary, had a genial manner about her, polite but in a less overbearing way than Frank. The other guy, Charley appeared to have emerged fully grown from a laundry heap. Shabby in a just-so kind of way. Simply put, the kind of person Mark was used to being around, or rather used to know. The three of them were artists, they said. Unsurprising really, why else would such an odd trio end up splitting an apartment in New York? Mark knew the feeling, he used to be them.

A day out on the town was suggested and accepted. It seemed like no one really felt like lingering on the strangeness of the situation. When you’re young and in the city, far stranger things happen on a daily basis. A day out was called for and so a day out it would be.

〜〜〜

It was quickly made aware to Mark what the oddness he couldn’t figure out was. Out on the street, he straggled behind just a step to catch the date on a newspaper that had fallen on the ground. 1958. Over thirty years earlier. Hell, Mark hadn’t even been born yet! And here he was walking around in nineteen-fucking-fifty-eight like it was just another day. He decided to conceal this fact from Frank, Charley, and Mary.  _ No need to make them worry! _ Mark thought, resisting the urge to scream. Magic potion-induced time travel was definitely a normal New York City occurrence. Definitely.

〜〜〜

Mark sat next to Charley at the diner. It was quite odd. Mark knew this diner. It would still be operating out of this same spot thirty years later. He came here for lunch every day he could afford it. Now, he, Mark Cohen, was sitting at the same counter he frequented in the 1990s with the starving artists of the previous generation! Except of course, these three weren’t quite as starving as he and Roger and Benny had been, but that’s a non-starter.

Frank was a composer, Charley a playwright, and Mary a novelist. It was a quaint and simple group compared to the self described bohemians. And of course the obvious fact, none of the three were at any obvious risk of dying from incurable illness, but Mark tried not to dwell on that too much. Trying to distract himself, he tried to strike up a conversation with Charley. 

“So um. You… write plays?” That was a shit start. “That’s… cool.” 

Charley gave him a funny look, emphasized by his oversized spectacles. “Yeah. Plays. Well, more like books for musicals these days. Musicals we’re working on together!” His voice perked up a little bit at this. “Right now we’re working on this show called  _ Take a Left _ ! It’s about corruption in the US Senate, told from the perspective of the pages who run messages for the senators! Isn’t that a fascinating concept? A story about corruption, told through the eyes of children?”

Mark had to admit it was an interesting concept. He was unsure how anyone could possibly make a musical about that sort of topic, but it sounded cool. Already, the documentary filmmaker in him was itching to know more. Hell, if he ever got back to his own time, Mark would have to see if  _ Take A Left _ had become a movie yet. It was the sort of project Mark wished he could get in on. Then or now, now or then.

“Tell me more.”

Those were the magic words. Before long, two hours had passed and the hostess and waitress both seemed on a mission to get the four rambling fools to move their asses along. Well, two rambling fools. Mary and Frank had also been trying to leave for the last forty-five minutes, but Mark and Charley couldn’t be moved. So far, Charley had explained the whole concept and pitch of  _ Take A Left _ and Mark was halfway through describing his own recent projects when they finally made it out the door. To make a non-anachronistic film reference, it seemed to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

〜〜〜

Much later on that evening, the three old friends and singular new friend stumbled into a bar. They had spent the rest of the time each working on and workshopping each others’ current projects. Mark was impressed by Charley, Mary, and Frank in turn. All three of them seemed to burn with that passion that all young artists have before realizing one simple truth: that everything is just about making money in the end. It’s funny, they were all about the same age, and yet Mark felt so old standing beside people who still had hope, who still had futures. If he closed his eyes hard enough, their energy was enough to bring a dead-ender like him back to life, back to a time when he still had that kind of dogged optimism. Coming here, to this time, was good. But of course good things can’t ever last.

〜〜〜

Mary watched the boys drink. They were having a good time, or at least that’s what she assumed. People told her that drinking meant a good time, Mary just assumed them to be correct. She wouldn’t, couldn’t touch a drop of alcohol, anyway, who else was supposed to make sure everyone got home safely? She stirred her lemonade with the little paper umbrella. A sober girl wasn’t any fun after a while, after everyone else was a couple rounds in.

She was content to just watch. Mary liked that. Being the watcher. The girl who never missed a thing. Mary certainly wasn’t missing how close Charley and this new guy had become even in a single day. Charley, well he’d fall hard for anyone who actually listened to him talk, whether he realized that himself was still unclear. As for Mark, Mary couldn’t quite get a read on him. It’s almost like some abstract force was keeping her from putting a finger on anything about him. Still, even the universe couldn’t deter Mary’s impressive senses. There was a loneliness in that man that seemed to fit right in with the three of them.

When Charley and Mark joined hands and walked out back, flushed faces grinning like children, Mary finished her lemonade, smiled, and went to console a slightly confused Frank.

〜〜〜

Mark awoke on the floor in his kitchen. The sun was peeking through the dusty blinds. It was morning. Had it all just been a dream? It had to be. There’s no way he could have gone to 1965 and back in the span of a night. Time travel wasn’t real. He was  _ quite  _ sure about this now. Mark Cohen, local cynic. It wouldn’t do him any good to start getting soft on that front.

He picked himself up off the floor. A bump was already starting to form on the back of Mark’s head where it had hit the counter.  _ The blue of the sky, the warmth of the sun, the laughter of friends _ . It was too good to be true. Too good for a tired young fool like him. Of course, he had his own memories like that. They were seven of the greatest friends and biggest dreamers on this whole earth. In spite of the sickness that lurked at the edges of their consciousness, they ruled the world, even if “the world” was just a couple streets in New York City. But what mattered was that it was enough! Happy enough, healthy enough! But it really hadn’t been enough, had it?

Mark poured out a bowl of cornflakes and a bit of milk separately and left them on the table next to Roger’s morning medications. And a glass of orange juice for good measure. This was routine by now, each breakfast fastidiously arranged and Mark gone before Roger could wake and complain about the kindness. Mark couldn’t stand the self pity, ironic coming from the king of self pity himself. Unlike any other depressingly same day though, Mark  _ did  _ have a purpose today. There were questions still left to be answered.

The bike ride to the library was frustratingly long. Mark was almost hit by a limousine on the way there.  _ Very funny,  _ he thought.  _ Failure filmmaker run over by blind capitalist. Wouldn’t that make a fucking great headline _ . Mark survived the journey. How disappointing.

It wasn’t hard to find out what happened. There was a lot of information on the topic. Almost every tabloid in the country had jumped out of their skin trying to cover the downfall of storied movie producer Frank Shepard. It was all there, the first hit show, the divorce, the party. The fall of a titan or merely the folly of a man caught up by money and fame? The journalists at the rags didn’t seem to know and Mark couldn’t really tell either.

Mary was a bit harder to find. A critic both highly revered and universally despised. She never wrote more than one novel. Still active, but just barely. “Lost her wits to drinking,” said the one article critiquing the critic. “A truly sorry excuse for a woman, she seems to have just given up.”

And Charley. Oh, Charley… Winner of a Pulitzer Prize and still left with nothing. Disappeared from the public eye at some point in the early eighties. No one really knew what happened to him. Rumors said he died. Others say he didn’t. It didn’t matter at all to Mark whether Charley was dead or alive  _ now _ . Only that he had existed  _ then _ , and that Mark had gotten to spend just one glory-filled day with him. 

It’s the curse of youth isn’t it? Growing up? Losing all those ideals you  _ promised _ you’d never abandon. But time comes for us all and youth and all its colors die lonely deaths.

And all you can be is sorry.  _ So damn sorry _ .

  
  



End file.
